Margaret eased her car to the side of the road as the flashing lights settled behind her. A young officer approached, notebook in hand, clearly trying to maintain his professional tone.
“Ma’am, do you know how fast you were going?” he asked.
Margaret gave him a warm, unbothered smile. “At my age, dear, I don’t bother with numbers. I just try to keep up with everyone else.”
The officer glanced around at the empty stretch of road. “There’s no other traffic.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Well then… I suppose I was doing quite well.”
The officer let out a small breath. “May I see your license?”
She began rummaging through her purse with great seriousness—past tissues, old receipts, a couple of hard candies—until she paused.
“Oh my,” she said casually. “I think I may have left it at home.”
“That’s… not ideal,” he replied.
Then she added, almost as an afterthought, “Although I’m not sure I even need one.”
The officer froze. “And why would that be?”
Margaret leaned slightly closer, lowering her voice. “Because technically… this isn’t my car.”
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